Lights Out
by Alternatively
Summary: If that kiss had never happened... An alternative Ron-and-Hermione get together. Post-battle, Grimmauld Place.


It seemed incredible, after everything, that he couldn't sleep. In the silence, echoes. It all rang through his head like cymbals. The sounds of screaming, falling stone, crumbling building. The sounds of grief, of heavy breath, pounding footsteps and pounding hearts. Curses zinging, flying through the air, spitting sparks of magic… that peculiar sound of bodies hitting the stone floor.

Lying in the dark, colours played across his eyes too. As though his brain was trying to catch up with everything that had happened. As though, by playing ghostly repeats across his senses, he would somehow adjust.

As if that were possible.

He felt a little dead.

Everything was stiff and sore, and he knew that at some point, everything that had happened would sink in, and he was dreading it.

He got out of bed, feeling all his joints groan and protest, and walked through the house. Quietly. Well. Reasonably quietly. There was a lot of hallway to get lost in. It was strange to be back in this place. It was a strange place all together.

Ron walked down the grey-dark halls, with the black rectangles of portraits looming down, gently snoring in their frames.

He stood by a third floor window and stared out into the night for a while. It was so still. Silent. Windless. It seemed wrong somehow, like it was lying. After all the death and mayhem, that it should be still…

He was carrying around with him a strange feeling. It was like a long loop of confusion and crisis, and it had to do with her. He wanted so much to have his arms wrapped around her. For as long, and as often as possible. He wanted to know she was safe, know she was there, know she was ok.

A little knotted part of the loop told him that he'd thought if they survived they'd be together. As though defeating the dark lord necessarily gave him the girl. Which was ridiculous, and now that they were on the other side, he knew that in a way he couldn't quite believe it before.

He rubbed his eyes with his less injured hand. He was tired. He couldn't sleep. It would have to be more hallways.

He ambled on. After a minute he realised he was heading back to that room they'd slept in all those months ago. The room where, for a few hours, he'd thought there might be something there.

He could still remember with warm clarity the way she'd reached for his hand in the dark.

And the feel of it, and the way she'd said he made her feel safer, just by being there.

Sometimes he wasn't sure if he'd dreamed that part. It seemed so unlikely.

Well, he'd go in. Sit on the sofa. Remember. It was better than trying to sleep.

The door was open. He was five steps inside before he realised she was there. On the sofa, curled up, in a large jumper, moonlight hitting the side of her face. He stood for a minute. She was perfectly still, except for the rise and fall of her breath, and the occasional blink as she gazed at him, partially obscured by shadows.

The room was so still.

Ron walked over to the sofa and sat down beside it on the floor. Stiffly. Gently. Poor joints.

It had seemed like the thing to do.

After a moment, her hand touched his shoulder, ran down his arm, tracing towards his hand. He reached up, her fingers closed on his, and resettled, interlocking. He felt a sharp stab of memory, the memory of her hand in his, the way it felt like it belonged. This time though, he could feel the healers glue in patches, and a little wave of pain rolled through him at the thought of her pain.

They sat like that for a moment.

Then she started pulling, gently, up towards the sofa, slowly, so he had time to move with her motion, and un-bend his long stiff legs. She made space for him beside her, and without speaking, tucked herself under his arm and up against his chest as he sat down. Ron felt a surge of relief. She was warm, and safe, and breathing. She was injured, yes, but she was there, and she would be ok. He held her gently and close. She gave a little sigh, and some of the tension left her, and she felt warm and small in his arms. She felt like she belonged.

The strange looped feeling muddled him. What did it mean? Why was she here? His tired brain could do no more than gaze down at her in her raggedy, over-sized jumper, the cuff ripped open on one arm. Gradually a new feeling crept into his mind. Recognition.

In the dark, everything looked grey. But as he looked at the ripped cuff, he knew that by day the jumper would be faded and stained and orange. Chudley Canons orange.

The muddled feeling started to fade around the edges. This was something real. A new feeling emerged. Inarticulate, but clear and hopeful. Ron held her close, and closed his eyes.


End file.
